The Twilight Years
by The Horsey
Summary: The Twilight Years descend swiftly upon Alagaesia and even the strongest will face almost certain doom. With a power more lethal than Galbatorix running lose hnting down Murtagh, what factor will Eragon play in this tale? Read on dear friends and find out
1. Chapter 1

** Hello fellow fan fic authors and readers. Welcome to my second fan fic. I have had the idea for this story for some time now and have finally posted the first chapter. Hopefully this will turn out better than my other fanfic. Sorry if I don't post on this regularly, but school is getting really tough right now so hang in here with me, please, it'll be worht it, I promis. But no tim for fancy introductions so with out further interuption, The Horsey proudly presents:**

**The Twilight Years**

The village put forth a blazing light as hungry flames fed their bellies on the woodwork of the small houses and the flesh of the peasants who lived there. The Chieftain of the village lay impaled on the fence surrounding the cemetery, his black eyes frozen in an expression of sheer horror and his left arm lying in a puddle of crimson on the ground next to him. He alone had possessed the courage to stand against that cold monster, even as black smoke rose in torrents into the starry night sky. His warriors had cowered in their homes as frightened kittens do in the presence of a storm. Yet he couldn't have blamed them, no man could have hoped to stand successfully against that creature. It was something from a nightmare, with glowing red eyes and a thundering voice. It was a pity the man had to spend his final minutes staring the thing down, his heart racing as armor that was made from pure shadow, some sorcerer's trick, danced slowly but tightly against its body. It had been merciless in its killing; the chief was a perfect example. No one in the village had been left alive, but the beast still had not found what it was looking for.

The creature stood upon the hill above the valley where the village burned, admiring its handiwork. Days ago he would not have had the power to do this. The magic required to perform the task would have killed him. But that had all changed since he had found the book in Oromis's study.

"The old man was foolish to try and keep it from me," the beast said to itself. "He said that the secrets inside were too much for any being to posses. Said the book should have been burned. But he didn't seem in any hurry to give it up."

"I was right to kill him while he slept," the monster continued, trying to convince himself, "Once he was gone and I had the secrets in the book, that fool Glaedr went down easily. Escape from Ellesmera was all too simple after that."

"And you, Saphira," the beast said turning to face its fallen foe, "you should never have tried to stop me from doing what I have done here tonight. Did you honestly think you could keep me from reaching Murtagh?"

The sapphire colored dragon lay motionless and without breath on the cold rocky ground. A deep gash ran from the tip of her tail up the underside of her stomach and all the way to her throat. Dark blood poured from her, a waterfall feeding into a river of deep red.

"Not one of you can stop me now," the horrid being went on, "Not you, not Murtagh, not Arya, and not Nasuada. I am now more powerful than any of you could ever become, and I will only become stronger as I master the dark and morbid arts inside this tome." He held the dark purple book high in the air, then thrust back into his armor made of shadow. "What I was is gone. I am now and will ever be Eragon, Lord Of Shadow And Darkness."

With those final words, Eragon stretched out great wings of shadow and flew of into the night. His shaggy hair, now tuned black, rippled in the night wind as he let forth a terrible screech and glided toward the full moon.


	2. Calm Before The Storm

**Hey, to everyone that has decided to read on in this delightful little tale, thank you very very much. I really appreciate it. But as I said before, there's no time for formalities,** **so let us read on **

**The Twilight Years Chapter 2: Calm Before The Storm**

Eragon sped through the cold night air from the foothills of the mountains on the east side of Leona Lake and towards Dras-Leona. The chill of the night air made him think of the icy void where his heart had once been. A great many changes had fallen upon him; but he loved each and every one of them.

No longer was he Eragon Shadeslayer or Argetlam, he was a much more sinister being now. Two weeks had passed and already he had mastered almost half of the dark secrets he found in the Tome of Sector, which he had pried from the hands of Oromis. He had found that the magic in this book was far greater than any enchantment that Oromis had ever taught him. No longer was there any need for the Ancient Language; he could now use his magic on a whim. He had only to reach out and grasp it, which had become as simple as breathing.

He had lusted for the book since he saw it lying on one Oromis's shelves in his house. The old Elf would never tell him what the book was; only that it was written by a dark Elf lord of ages gone by and that it should not be read by anyone. So one night while the Elf was sleeping soundly, Eragon crept into the house masked by a spell that kept him invisible and stole the Tome. He didn't even bother to wait until he got outside to open it. When he opened up the front cover he saw words in a tongue unfamiliar to him written in red ink. Somehow, though he had never seen this language before, he could read every word of it.

He would never forget the first words he spoke in that language, it made him feel powerful to speak it. And indeed, as the words left his mouth, a tentacle of shadow crept out of the ground and began to strangle Oromis. The old man we from his slumber thrashing violently about, trying to escape the fate that clawed at him like a thousand demons, but it as far to late. He had only enough time to comprehend what had happened before his head was torn from his body by the arm of shadow.

After that, Eragon's memories were not as clear. He remembered black shadows coming up from the earth, creeping up his body and forming a suit of shadow armor around him. He remembered his hair turning black. But after that, he only remembered faint images of slaying Glaedr and fleeing Ellesmera. Saphira had tried to track him down; he had dealt with her tonight. She had paid for her foolishness. None of his old friends mattered to him now.

He cared only about finding one person, his brother Murtagh. And he cared not for him. He merely wanted to reclaim a lost treasure. After all, if he was going to set up his empire in Alagaesia he would need a decent sword to slay his opposers.

"Be wary of me brother," he said aloud to himself as he flew over Leona-Lake, "I speed toward Dras-Leona. I know you are there, the chieftain of that pitiful village told me so. Said you passed through there a few days ago. Well now I come to reclaim Zar'roc, and your life if you anger me."

Not a soul spotted the winged beast flying over the walls of the city, he made sure to mask himself with dark magic before nearing the city. Eragon landed quietly outside the window of the room in the governor's mansion, where Murtagh was staying. He made his wings disappear, and savored the blissful calm before the rain of blood that was about to begin.


	3. A Demonstration Of Power

The Twilight Years

Chapter III

Eragon stood on the windowsill breathing heavily. In a few short moments he would taste sweet revenge and Murtagh would pay for humiliating him in battle.

The Shadowmancer could taste blood in the air; oh sweet sweet vengeance!

Before entering the room, Eragon concentrated and forced the shadows back into his body. He had taken on the look of himself before finding the book. Murtagh would not know how to respond when Eragon revealed his new self. How Eragon loved the thought of the look of horror on his brother's face.

He pulled the wooden shutters open with magic and jumped lightly inside the room. Just as Eragon had felt his presence, there sat Murtagh on a large bed, polishing the blade Zarroc. Eragon's brother looked up with a blank expression on his face. Then that expression turned to rage.

"You," he said in a dangerously silent voice, "what are you doing here? How did you get here without being heard or seen? Answer me!"

"Well dear brother," Eragon tauntingly replied, "it is wonderful to see you too. You will find, Murtagh, that there are many ways I can avoid being seen or heard. There are a great many things that have changed since last we met, and so many more changes will happen."

"What are you talking about? What changes? I see nothing but a child in front of me, who fancies himself a warrior and hero."

"Murtagh," Eragon chuckled, "I am no hero. I want nothing but what is best for me. You see, I have not come here tonight on behalf of the Elves, or Dwarves, or even the Varden. I am here for me and me alone. I am here for revenge."

"Revenge," Murtagh said.

"Yes, along with a few other reasons," Eragon sneeringly replied.

Murtagh drew Zarroc on Eragon. He was prepared to kill. The problem was, so was Eragon.

Murtagh had spent endless hours training so that he could always stay a step ahead of Eragon. His younger brother didn't realize he had no chance. But he seemed confident enough.

"Ah yes brother," Eragon taunted, "so nice of you to offer me the blade. That is one reason I am here. But I still must take your life.'

"Need we go through this again Eragon," Murtagh replied, "I am Morzan's oldest son not y-"

"The oldest but not the strongest," Eragon said

With that, he allowed the shadows to sprout forth from inside him. Once more he took on the appearance he had used when slaughtering the villagers a few hours before. He grinned wickedly. Such a bloodlust he had never known. He craved Murtagh's life, and that craving would not go unsatisfied.

"Now my dear brother," Eragon said in an unnaturally deep voice, "you see why age is no sign of strength."

_"Brisngr,"_ shouted Murtagh.

Eragon reached out and plucked out of the air, the fire that had issued from Murtagh's hand. He focused it into a ball and threw it violently back at its caster. Murtagh flew through the air and into the wall, bringing a large painting down onto his head. He sat there helpless, in mortal fear with blood dripping from his forehead.

"I'll be taking that," Eragon jeered hoisting the red bladed Zarroc and its sheath to him with magic, "You should feel honored Murtagh. If I didn't consider you to be such a threat then I might spare you. But you are not to be trusted. If I let you live you might become far too powerful. Besides, I must also slay Galbatorix and you would be far too valuable an asset to him. You see Murtagh, the Twilight Years are coming. Darkness will soon seize hold of the sun and all you hold dear will be gone. Unless of course I will it otherwise. But that is doubtful. That is a wonderful painting. What is it of?"

Eragon pulled the painting to him. He saw the ugly face of a thin balding man who seemed to think quite highly of himself. Eragon thought he looked weak.

"Ah this must be that putrid governor whose abode this is. Yes, he and his troops gave me and Brom quite a time when we were last here. But those days are gone. I shall have to return for that man someday. But now I have dawdled to long. Murtagh, you must now run to the cruel embrace of the merciless mistress, Death."

Eragon glanced at Zarroc, thinking of how to impale Murtagh. But then a much more sinister thought came to mind. A horrid scream was heard but only by the ears of Eragon; his magic had seen to this. The Shadowmancer collapsed part of the roof in the room and flew away, towards the Hadarac Desert.

In the morning, when the maid came to take laundry from Murtagh's room and to bid him downstairs to breakfast, she glanced at the pile of rubble on the far side of the room. But this was nothing next to what lay at the foot of the bed. The maid shrieked loudly, as a tormented banshee in the dark of night; she fainted. It was the only time she had ever seen someone impaled by a painting through the face.


	4. A Rising Darkness

Hello all and welcome back. The Horsey is proud to present to you the newest instalment in this charming little tale. I must apologize to those of you who have stuck with this story for taking so long to update. My inspiration well had ran a little dry and I was pretty busy with other stuff. But now I'm back and I think you'll be pleased with the direction this story is taking. And now that apologies are out of the way: THANK YOU loyal friends and readers for hanging in there with me. I'm glad that you haven't given up on me yet. And to all those who are new to this fan fic, thank you as well for choosing to read my story first before reading the hundreds of other fan fics on this site (all though I do recomend you read all the stories on this site you can, alot of them are really good.) So, now that we're all reaccuainted, it's time for:

The Twilight Years

Chapter Four:

A rising Darkness

A blood red sun had just begun to rise over the Hadarac Desert when Eragon had found his target. Closely eyeing the small tents made of animal skin, he descended down upon the camp of one of the many nomadic tribes of the desert. He was not here to slaughter, he was here to recruit.

One of the men of the tribe spotted the beastly creature and hastily alerted the other warriors. Men clothed with only light breeches and jewelry made of animal bones rushed forward from tents carrying crudely made short swords and bows. They rushed forward at Eragon without hesitation, he liked this, this meant they would kill without reason. Just the kind of troops he needed.

Before however, any of them managed to lay hands to Eragon, he let forth a loud and deafening roar that made them all stop dead in their tracks. This was an enchantment for controlling the weak minded that he had learned from the Tome.

"Now," Eragon said to them, "you will present to me, the leader of this tribe. Make haste for there is much work that needs to be done."

Two of the warriors quickly disappeared around some of the tents and within seconds had returned with a third man in their party. He was a strange man in appearance; indeed Eragon had never seen the like of him. His eyes were a catlike yellow and his hair a silvery, tainted gray that was pulled back in a ponytail that went just to the bottom of his neck. Though his skin was wrinkled by the passage of at least seventy years, he carried himself as though he had not seen a day over twenty years. He was not a broad man, nor was he a small man. And even though the heat of the desert was nigh unbearable, he wore thick breeches made from the wool of some animal native to the dessert and an equally heavy cloak made from the same material. In his right hand, he carried a tall spear like a walking staff.

"What is your purpose here creature?" The chieftain said to the shadowmancer in a deep, slow raspy growl.

"Careful how you address me," Eragon replied, "I am not want to tolerate such disrespect. As for my purpose, I wander if you might have interest in leaving this wretched desert."

"Why would we? This desert is our home and provides for us, everything we need to survive. What makes you believe we would leave here willingly?"

"Oh, it doesn't bother me if you come willingly or not. I have no qualms with dragging you from this place in chains. But if you come of your own accord, you could have more power and luxury than you are able to imagine. You say you survive in this dessert, yet leave with me and you will cease to survive and begin to truly _live_."

"Hmmm….Why of all people you could come to, did you come to us? And just what is your plan for acquiring such power?"

"Dear chieftain let us not deceive one another. You know why I have come to you. Or shall I remind you?"

Eragon pulled the Tome of Sector from inside his shadowy armor and held it high for all assembled to see.

"Does this look familiar to you?" he asked the chieftain.

"Sectors Tome," the chief gasped, "How did you find that?"

"I will save that for another time. But this book says that the tribe that wanders this region of the desert helped to forge the dark secrets held in its pages. Is this not the same tribe that helped in creating this book all those years ago?"

"Indeed. Our fathers of many years past assisted the Elf Lord Sector in his vile task of writing that book. They were powerful and it has long been said that Sector would have never accomplished the spells inside that book without the help of the nomads."

"Then it is true? Does the gift of your ancestors still run through the blood of your tribesmen today?"

"To an extent, yes. We are still formidable magicians. But our power to command the shadows has faded. You seem to have mastered that art more so than our fathers however. But as our ability to command shadows has faded, our ability to do that which our fathers struggled to accomplish has grown stronger."

Eragon let out a greedy laugh, "It is as I had hoped then. You have become powerful necromancers?"

"Yes," the chieftain smiled," there are none more powerful than us. One of our men can reanimate ten corpses. Even our women can reanimate five. And unlike most necromancers, with our craft, there is no need to dig the body up before casting the spell. They will rise from the grave themselves. They can even break through stone. Only a thick door of iron would detour them. And our living dead are not weak and mindless zombies. They think with as much wit as any warrior. And they are as strong as they were in the prime of their life. They are perfect replicas of their living selves in all but appearance. While we can mend some rotted skin they will have the appearance of a man long dead."

"Perfect. I take it you are willing to come with me then?"

"Tell me of your plan and all of my tribe will follow you."

"You are familiar with the mountain range north of this desert?"

"Yes, the Beors."

"Excellent. We will be heading northeast recruiting any tribe we encounter along the way. They may not be necromancers and magicians but we still need the brute strength. We will go to the Az Ragni River and travel north along it through the valley of the Beor Mountains until we reach a dead end. Once there, there is a certain mountain that houses a large dwarf city. That mountain is called Farthen Dur and the city inside is called Tronjheim. I will lead you inside and convince the dwarves to shelter you under the idea guise that I have brought you from the desert because you wish to help the Varden fight the Empire. I shall tell them that we need to rest for a bit before continuing on to Surda."

"Very well," the chief chimed in," but what will we do in this Tronjheim? Surely you do not expect to capture an entire city with the hundred or so men we will accumulate along the way?"

"No, that is no my intention," Eragon continued," you see, there is a vast catacombs underneath Farthen Dur. Many dwarves and some Varden are buried here. We will find a way to sneak inside of these tombs and you and your tribesmen will use your powers to reanimate the dead inside. Then we will tear through Tronjheim securing the city and making our way to the Kings hall. Once there I will convince the King to join with us or die. If he accepts I will make him a governor of my empire once more lands are acquired."

"Very well," the chieftain said after considering for a moment, "you have our allegiance. I, Lurzing, Chieftain of this tribe, along with all of my men and women will support your cause and die for you, oh Lord of Shadows."

"Excellent," Eragon replied with immense satisfaction, "Have these people ready to move out within the hour. We have a long journey ahead of us. I can speed us up a little but not much. And at times I will have to leave you for a day or so. I will be missed among the Varden if I stay away to long. At these times it will fall upon you to lead the men on towards Tronjheim. Do not fail me. The consequences would be dire."

"I understand. I accept the responsibility readily. I long for the power you can help us achieve."

With that, the preparations for travel began. The journey that would follow would see the slaughter of many of the deserts tribes and the corruption of many more. Unbeknownst to the dwarves, a second battle of Farthen Dur marched towards them more terrible than the first. Perhaps a smaller number of enemies would be involved. Perhaps the destruction would not be as great. But the lasting change the battle would have on the city would be the worst thing that the dwarves as a race, had ever experienced.

R&R

Next Chapter: the second battle of Tronjheim!


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